Message Recieved
by Westward
Summary: A wrong message isn't usually the way to start a relationship. Especially with someone you've never even met. Especially if they're a part of a privately funded, experimental military program. A Tuckington Alternate Universe.
1. Chapter 1

It was in the coffee shop down the street that Tucker received the first text message.

Tucker was sitting down at an open booth next to one of his friends, hot Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and a fresh blueberry muffin in the other. He leaned into the window by his right side, propping his shoulder against the freezing glass. The chill was settling into his bones despite the winter jacket he wore, but Tucker didn't really care. His friend, a shorter, chubbier man named Grif, sat opposite of him and was occupied with his own cup of coffee and a frosted brownie the size of his entire hand.

There was a faint vibration coming from within his puffy winter jacket, and Tucker set down his muffin to grab his phone.

_"__Of course Simmons is texting me to tell us he's going to be late." _Tucker thought to himself, frowning as he fished his phone out between spare change and a used tissue. He slid his thumb over the smooth surface as he let out a small muttering under his breath. _"That asshole never arrives anywhere on time."_

However instead of it being another one of his friends, Tucker found a very confusing, yet very threatening message from an unknown number. The young man could feel his eyebrows furrowing together the longer he stared at the text. Tucker scratched his head, pulling off his aqua colored knit hat and setting it beside his muffin in the process. He could feel Grif shift at his side, noticing the change in his companion's posture. And yet, the Hawaiian didn't question his growing confusion, allowing Tucker to reread the text.

_York, if you don't delete those fucking photos I swear to God that you won't be able to sit down for an entire week without moaning in pain after I kick your ass.—Unknown, 4:29_

Whoever this York person was, Tucker knew that they had done something to seriously piss off the sender. Initially, Tucker thought that he should politely message the person back, telling them that they had the wrong number. But as he read the message a third time, Tucker found his fingers already typing away a more . . . obscene response.

_Sounds like he can't take what's given to him. Bow chicka bow wow.—Message received, unread._

He sent it without fully realizing what he had done. By the time that he realized that he had used one of his awful pick-up lines, Tucker could feel his stomach slowly drop. He literally dropped his phone onto the table. The object clattered loudly, which again caught the attention of Grif, as well as Church as he joined the two at the booth, coffee and snack in hand. Thankfully Church was holding his tongue for his best friend, but Grif was not as controlled.

"Dude. Are you gonna be alright? You look like you just sent a nude to your grandmother by accident." Grif eloquently put it as he shoved the rest of his hand sized brownie into his mouth. He chuckled as he chewed, a few crumbs falling from his mouth and onto his plaid orange scarf. "Oh god. Please tell me you didn't."

"Of course not, asshole. But I think I just insulted a random person who texted a wrong number."

"Wow." Grif continued, pausing to take a sip from his steaming coffee. "Dick move."

"And it might have involved an innuendo about dicks." Tucker sighed, feeling his cheeks getting warmer. It was a good thing that the two could never tell when he was blushing, or else they'd never let him live it down.

"That _was_ a dick move." Church finally contributed to the conversation, meticulously picking away the chocolate chips from the top his muffin as he spoke. "If I were you, asshole, I'd text them back and apologize."

"No shit, Church. You thought of that yourself?"

Church scowled at his best friend and then flipped him the finger cautiously, hiding it behind his large muffin. He didn't want to insult the older patrons.

"Just send them the text, you moron."

Tucker did just that. He picked up his phone from the tabletop and opened up the conversation again. Just as he was about to send off his typed text, the phone buzzed in his hands, informing him that the random person had replied to Tucker's message. Tucker's stomach dropped again and he reluctantly opened the message.

_Good one. I'll make sure to tell York that after I pry his phone from his fingers.—Unknown, 4:31_

And then shortly after, another response.

_Who is this again?—Unknown, 4:31_

Church and Grif had been peaking over his shoulder, reading the incoming text messages. Tucker caught them in the act and roughly shoved them away from him. Church ended up spilling his still steaming hot coffee onto his pants, causing the college student to immediately stand up and start swearing like a sailor, which wasn't very hard for him to accomplish. Church's swearing caused many eyes to drift to their booth. It's not like Tucker wanted the extra attention, and neither did the other two. Thankfully, Church angrily rushed to the men's room to clean up, but Grif was not as easily deterred.

Grif was smirking again, trying to hide a rising laugh. Hopefully it wouldn't rise above a few snickers, or else Grif's booming, contagious laughter would alert the whole café to their presence. Tucker only glared at him as the other man chuckled out a few words.

"Looks like you either found another person who has your same sense of humor, or they're just too naive for their own good." Grif muttered through that smirk of his.

"Just fuck off, man. Go check on Church and make sure he's not too pissed off at me."

Tucker had meant it as a joke, because Church was always pissed off, but he was pleasantly surprised to see Grif comply. Grif raised his hands, palms up, in a gesture of submission and stood up from his seat. The Hawaiian headed towards the men's room, hands roughly shoved into his pants pockets. Now alone at the table, Tucker returned his attention to the unwanted conversation.

_You don't know me. Sent the message to the wrong number, man.—Tucker, read 4:36._

_I figured that out, Einstein. No really, who is this? What's your name?—Unknown, 4:36_

Tucker only hesitated for the smallest of seconds before answering them.

_Sorry, won't tell you. I just met you. Don't know if this is some lame attempt of identity theft.—Tucker, 4:37_

The reply took some time. Tucker was finishing up his muffin and was wondering if his two friends were returning anytime soon. There still wasn't any sign from Simmons, but the nerd always seemed to run late for everything. His phone buzzed again, and Tucker didn't hesitate to look at the text.

_I don't think identity theft works that way. And even if it did, I would only have your name. That's not much use to a thief without a string of numbers attached.—Unknown 4:40_

_That's just what you want me to think.—Tucker, 4:41_

_That's not what I meant. Look, let me start over again. My name is Washington, what's yours?—Unknown 4:43_

_Washington? Like the old President dude from like forever ago?—Tucker, 4:43_

_No, like the State.—Unknown, 4:44_

_You've got to be shitting me.—Tucker, 4:44_

That seemed to irritate this '_Washington'_ dude for the meantime, because he didn't get a response from the guy after a few minutes. Tucker didn't really care and he pocketed his phone as he saw Church and Grif exit the men's room side by side. Church still looked livid, but the wet stain on his grey-blue winter coat was disappearing, as well as Grif's patience for the other man. The two sat down, and stared at Tucker.

"So . . ." Church started, a little bite in his words. "You find out who your mysterious texter is?"

"Some dude named after a fucking State, that's who." Tucker said, waving off the text as he leaned off of the cold window and onto the table. He barely paid notice to Church's concerned look before starting up another conversation, directed away from his texting misadventures. "Now where the hell is Simmons? Shouldn't he have been here like half an hour ago?"

"The dude called me when we were in the restroom." Grif commented, raising his iPhone for the two to see it. "He said that he's on his way, but the weather will slow him down because he's walking instead of taking the bus. The one at the College Union got stuck in the snowbank."

"Well that's great." Church huffed out. "I don't want to wait around in this place all night; I have stuff I wanted to do."

"You're not the only one, man." Tucker chimed in just as he felt his phone vibrate again.

_I hope I'm not interrupting you with something important.—Unknown, 4:48_

_Nah, just some coffee with assholes. They won't mind. Why are you asking?—Tucker 4:49_

_I'm bored.—Unknown, 4:50_

_There's not much to do where I'm from and you're providing an excellent distraction from the urge to pull my hair out.—Unknown, 4:50_

_Glad to be of assistance.—Tucker, 4:52_

_You're very sarcastic, do you know that?—Unknown, 4:53_

_Got it from my best friend. He's worse than I am, especially when he's angry.—Tucker, 4:54_

_Sounds like you two would be a fun bunch.—Unknown, 4:54_

_You should see us at the party.—Tucker, 4:56_

_I'll bet. What kind of coffee are you having?—Unknown, 4:57_

_Some kind of organic shit. It's actually pretty good with the right kind of cream.—Tucker, 4:58_

It was at that time that Simmons had finally joined the crew, waving at the window from the outside as he passed the café. The door chime went off as Simmons entered and a harsh wind blew into the small room. Tucker could feel his cheeks burn against the cold and watched as Church tightened the dark blue scarf around his neck. Grif seemed to be the most affected by the cold and huddled up, moving his head into his large, over insulated coat like a turtle.

Simmons stamped on the matt to rid his boots of the accumulated snowy brown slosh before he closed the glass door behind him. His cheeks were red from the cold and his glasses were fogging up due to the temperature difference, but neither observation did anything to deter his relieved smile that was plastered on his face. The tall nerd made his way to their booth, taking off his glasses in one hand and holding onto a white pizza both with the other.

"Sorry I had to make you guys wait. There was a guy in our study group that didn't know the difference between a core processor and a CPU." Simmons said, placing down the white cardboard box down on the counter before sitting next to Grif. He wiped as his glasses, blowing on them to get them clean. "And he's supposedly the top student in the programing major. Idiot."

"Yeah, because it's like the difference is _so_ obvious." Grif said sarcastically as he went to open the cardboard box. Simmons gave the shorter man a small whack on his shoulder and Grif cursed under his breath. "I was _joking, _Simmons. Now what kind of pizza did you get?"

Simmons had brought with him half a cold pizza; his study session at his College Union had run later than he had expected and one of the students had ordered pizza almost an hour ago. Grif didn't seem to mind the fact that the pizza was old and cold and he immediately dug in, with Church right by his side. Tucker set his phone down, forgetting his conversation with a friendly, bored stranger for the meantime. Each of the friends had a single piece, and they soon scarfed it down with their coffee.

After they finished their food, the four young men remained at the booth, having a casual conversation for a few hours. The café's barista looked a little irritated at the fact that the men were staying after they finished their food, but none of them gave her a second look. She looked even more irritated when she saw that they had brought pizza to the café instead of ordering more food, and thus not tipping her.

The weather had picked up after Simmons arrived; the Chicago wind picked up and the fresh fallen snow rose to the air, creating the illusion of small flurries. With a look out the window, the group of friends noticed that traffic had slowed down as road conditions worsened. For it only being late November, a strong Nor'easter was making its way into Canada, dumping at least a foot of snow throughout a day.

"Man, I hope the power doesn't go out in our building." Church said, finally commenting on the weather as he tapped the glass window. He ran a hand through his messy black hair as he stared down the street. "I can't remember the last time the heat was off."

"I thought you liked the cold, Church." Simmons said, keeping his gaze on the window as well.

"Well it's a lot better than the Texan heat I grew up in." Church retorted. "Half a year of nothing but 100 degree weather? I'll pass. And I don't like the humidity, that's for sure; it makes all your clothes stick onto you uncomfortably."

"I don't know, Church. I grew up in Honolulu, and I think I'd rather be there right now." Grif muttered through a sip of his almost emptied Styrofoam cup. "Sometimes I wonder why I left home for Chicago. If anything, I should have gone to Arizona. A nice hot, arid desert sound pretty good at the moment."

Tucker snorted at that. "Please, I've been to a desert. You wouldn't last there a day without complaining about how dry it is. It's nothing but dirt and sand, and getting a sunburn is always a bitch. "

"Hey, can't I fantasize about heat? You do realize that we're going to have to go out in that weather when we go back home?" Grif pointed out, growing exasperated.

At his words, the others deflated, knowing that Grif was right. Even Church who, as they pointed out, loved the cold with a dying passion, looked a little disgruntled with the thought of trudging through eight inches of accumulated snowfall with only jeans and a pair of snow boots. Simmons checked his watch, and mentioned that it was almost seven now. It was already growing dark, and the streetlights overhead would do nothing to help them on their journey. The four friends would rather be home in this weather than stumbling around in the cold night any longer than they should.

"Alright, you have a point." Tucker said, finally relenting from their argument.

"Yeah, let's leave before this weather gets worse." Church nodded his head as he stood up.

The four left together soon after that. As they made their way down the street and towards their apartment building, they huddled up like penguins staving off the bitter wind. Tucker had forgotten his scarf back in his room and was doing his best to pull his winter jacket closer towards his nose. Simmons was having a similar predicament, except his longer neck was proving to make the task more difficult. Grif, that son of a bitch, was in the middle of the group, using the others as a shield against the harsh wind.

The only one who didn't seem affected by the cold was Church, who led the group down the street until they closed in on the apartment building, neck and face completely wrapped up in his scarf.

Tucker ran for the door. Snow was beginning to make its way down his back, sending the grown man shivering from the unwanted chill. He kept the door open as the other three followed him in. Grif let out a small breath of relief as he took off his hat and shook off the snow covering it. Holding his hat by the little puff ball on the top, Grif helped himself to the stairwell. Tucker could hear the shorter, chubbier man mutter to himself as he made his way up the stairs and towards the sixth floor.

"You know, sometimes I wish that we picked an apartment that had an elevator . . ." Tucker muttered as he joined Grif, staying about half a floor behind the fellow.

"Yeah, you're telling me." Grif muttered. He paused between steps and patted down his jacket, a confused look on his face. He then frowned; whatever he had been looking for wasn't there. And then Grif groaned. "Damn it, Simmons has the key."

Tucker chuckled as he fished out the keys from his jeans pockets, dangling them just above Grif's face as he passed him.

"You son of a bitch." Grif muttered.

"Guess who's going to take a hot shower?" Tucker taunted, calling behind him as he continued up the stairs.

"You can be such an asshole sometimes, Tucker."

"Same goes to you."

Tucker could hear the other two entering the stairwell. They had probably went to the mailroom and gotten their mail, probably because they knew how badly their other roommates were at doing that simple task. Tucker could hear Simmons and Church talking together as he finally reached the sixth floor. Tucker closed the door behind him by the time that the two reached Grif, with Grif greeting them with an "_about damn time. . ."_

The sixth floor of the apartment building only housed four separate apartments, each with their own color coated front door. Apparently, all doors in the ten story apartment building were a different color, and it had been that way for decades. The landlord before the current one had been an artsy woman, and had done this on a whim during a Sunday, surprising the past renters when they left their apartments for work on Monday. The current landlord, a Southern man with a gruff disposition, didn't have the heart to paint over her work despite the complaints that his Hispanic custodian gave him.

Tucker passed the two doors immediately next to the stair well, a brown and purple in color, and headed towards his own royal blue colored door. Tucker inserted the key into the lock and opened the door, only to be greeted with the smell of something burning. He immediately entered his apartment, setting down his keys and hat onto the nearest table and then ran into the kitchen. There he spotted one of his roommates and their next door neighbor, bent over the remains of what looked like a sadly deflated and burnt apple pie.

"Donut, Caboose? What the hell are you doing?" Tucker asked, sighing between his words.

Donut looked up and frowned nervously. He put down the pair of oven mitts he was wearing and patted off flour from his cooking apron. Caboose, on the other hand, did not hear either the anger or disappointment that was in Tucker's voice and held up the abomination sitting in the pie tin.

"We're baking a pie!" Caboose said proudly, grinning from ear to ear. He set the pie back down on the stove top and ran a hand through his normally dirty blonde hair, except now it was coated in a thin layer of flour and . . . was that pie dough? "The cable went out about an hour ago, and we couldn't finish our movie. So Donut decided to try out a new recipe he got from the Doctor next door. I wanted to help."

"Doc told me that it was his grandmother's recipe, and his favorite desert. I thought that baking in a nice hot kitchen would have been just the thing during the cold weather." Donut said, his voice was a little more enthusiastic now that he saw that Caboose was unfazed by his roommate's impending fury. "Except the pie caught on fire halfway through the process. I guess we put too much flour on it."

Tucker stared at the mess for a few seconds longer before relenting with a tired sigh. If he listened carefully, he could hear the footsteps of the others approaching. He knew that he didn't want to be around when Church discovered the battle ground that once was their clean kitchen.

"Fine. But you better clean this up, and fast." Tucker said as he unzipped his jacket and hung it up in the open closet next to the kitchen. Tucker ran a hand through his cropped, curly brown hair before turning towards the bathroom. During that, he caught the two friends' confused looks. "Church is on his way, and he'll have a fucking hissy fit when he sees the mess that you made."

Just as he said that, the three heard the doorknob turn, informing them that Church was already back. Caboose and Donut's complexions paled and they quickly moved to clean up most of the evidence. Tucker only shook his head and grabbed a towel from the linen closet before entering the bathroom. He started to strip when he heard the telltale sound of Church's unusually loud and angry voice. Tucker didn't want to hear that and turned on the shower, blocking out the noise from the impending shit storm back in the kitchen/living area.

Tucker had been right; a shower was just what he needed to fight off the cold. The hot water running down his back and between his legs felt like heaven. Because Tucker knew that Church would also want a share at the hot water, Tucker kept the shower quick. He shut off the water and stepped onto the bathroom matt. As Tucker toweled himself off, he spotted his phone on the sink near his toothbrush. Tucker picked up his phone, and noticed that he had not answered his last text message from the mysterious stranger.

_If only I could get a good cup of coffee. The stuff they serve here tastes like pencil erasers and ground up dirt.—Unknown, sent 4:59_

Tucker thought about answering the text. Whoever it was seemed to be enjoying sharing a conversation with a random stranger. But then again, they may be doing it out of politeness and holding the conversation until Tucker grew bored and stopped it for him. Tucker knew that his mother was like that, as well as Donut. It wouldn't be totally unbelievable if that was—

His phone vibrated in his hand, and Tucker saw that it was a new text from "Washington".

_Judging by the time, I'd say that you're done with coffee at this point.—Unknown, received 6:57_

So they were still texting him. That was strange, but Tucker didn't question it further as he typed whoever it was another message.

_Yeah, ended up chatting with friends and then headed towards home in this crappy weather. Is it bad for you wherever you live?—Tucker, 6:57_

_It just reached us about an hour ago. It's a complete whiteout outside.—Unknown, 6:58_

_So I'm guessing you live up in the North East? Or the Midwest?—Unknown, 6:58_

This was feeling like twenty questions again, like back in the café. Tucker hesitated giving out any information to a complete stranger. But then again, whoever it was had given him more information about himself to Tucker. Like a last name.

_I live in Chicago.—Tucker, 6:59_

Tucker quickly dressed as he turned on the bathroom fan. He pulled on a pair of sweats and a grey T-shirt as he waited for the person to respond. He rubbed down the fogged up mirror, inspecting his hair and teeth before hanging up his towel and exiting the room.

The apartment was quiet now, which could only mean two things. Either Caboose and Donut did what Church wanted and cleaned the place up, or Church escaped with Simmons and Grif to their apartment across from theirs to calm down. Curiosity forced Tucker down the hall and back to the main part of the apartment, where he saw Church reading a book while crawled up into a ball on the couch. Caboose was in the kitchen, getting rid of any evidence of his latest baking attempt.

Church looked up from his book as Tucker drew close. He had changed since he got home; now Church was wearing a blue turtleneck sweater and a pair of loose fitting jeans. His reading glasses were askew, but he quickly fixed that before going back to his book.

"How'd they clean that up so fast?" Tucker asked, motioning towards the kitchen.

"Oh, a little persuasion can get you _pretty far_ when you ask nice enough." Church said, his tone of voice implying Tucker that Church had done the exact opposite.

"You threatened to kick Caboose out the apartment, didn't you . . .?" Tucker asked flately.

"Yup." Church nodded, putting extra emphasis on the P.

Tucker sighed and went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge door as he grimaced ruefully at Caboose. Tucker pulled out a cold water bottle before closing the door and heading back to his small room. He shut the door behind him before falling onto his comfy bed, letting out a tired breath of relief as he did so. And then his phone buzzed again.

_Wow. That's not that far from where I am. Well at least I didn't text that message to someone from Switzerland.—Unknown, 7:06._

_Yeah, sorry I don't speak Swiss.—Tucker, 7:06_

_French. They speak French and German.—Unknown, 7:07_

_Whatever, man.—Tucker, 7:07_

That came off as a little rude. And while Tucker, or any of his friends for that fact, wasn't really that polite of a person, it didn't sit well with him. He frowned at himself as he typed another message before they could respond.

_So where are you from? It sounded like not far from Chicago.—Tucker, 7:08_

_About two hours southeast.—Unknown, 7:09_

_So somewhere in Indiana?—Tucker, 7:11_

_Yeah.—Unknown, 7:13_

There was a lull in the conversation, and Tucker picked up on it pretty quickly. He sat his phone down on his bed and went over by his desk. He turned on his computer and started to look through his emails and opened up to Facebook.

Tucker was currently unemployed and desperatley looking for a job. But since the job market was complete shit and he only had a two year degree from a community college, the chances of him landing a job were pretty slim.

Church wasn't in the same boat, who already had a part time job as a receptionist as he started his last year of classes. The more money that Church pulled into the apartment, the more Tucker regretted not staying at school for a few years longer. And Caboose's parents were fucking set for life, and they didn't expect him to get a job anytime soon. For all of his cheerfulness, even a blind man could see that Caboose was a few cards short of a full deck.

Tucker's mother could only support him for a little while longer before she'd ask him to come home. Joining the military was looking even better the longer he went unemployed . . .

He received no replies from his applications, which wasn't too surprising given his track record. Tucker closed out of his Gmail account and opened up a new tab to Netflix. He quickly started up from where he left off with his favorite show and opened up his water bottle. This wasn't exactly how he wanted to spend his Friday night, but hopefully the weather would diminish after tonight. And then the group of friends would go out for a drink on the town Saturday.

Tucker ended up watching three episodes before he felt his stomach growl. Tucker frowned as he stared accusingly down at his stomach. Apparently some coffee, a muffin, and a slice of cold pizza wasn't enough for dinner. Tucker paused the current episode of Scrubs and stood up. He left his room and headed towards the kitchen.

Church had retired for the night, leaving Caboose to his business. The dirty blonde had long since forgotten about his movie with Donut and was now playing a video game on their TV. It looked like Plants vs Zombies from the corner of Tucker's eyes, and it sounded like Caboose was growing frustrated with the game. Caboose was moaning in disappointment and in anger, and Tucker hoped that he didn't break another Xbox controller. Those things were not cheap.

Tucker started up the stovetop and quickly prepared a grilled cheese sandwich. Knowing that Caboose would want one as well, he started making another sandwich without even asking his roommate. Just as he thought, when Caboose heard the sound of sizzling bread on a frying pan, he paused the game and slowly slunk into the kitchen. Before Caboose could even ask for the sandwich, Tucker placed it on a clean plate.

"Here you go, bud. Help yourself." Tucker said as he turned back to the stove, speaking over his shoulder.

"Thanks Tucker!" Caboose said, biting through the sandwich with over enthusiasm.

The game started again soon after that. It acted as perfect background noise as Tucker finished cooking his own food. Tucker flipped off the stove as he grabbed another plate from the cabinet. He joined Caboose on the couch as he ate, watching the man's gameplay. Tucker finished his grilled cheese just as Caboose finished the level. Tucker checked his watch. It was already 10:20.

"Need help with the couch?" Tucker offered through a yawn.

"No, I got it. Thanks anyways." Caboose said as he went to turn off the television.

He placed the controller down on in a small basket with the rest of the apartment's games and controllers. Tucker nodded and went back to the kitchen. He rinsed off the plate before putting it in the dishwasher. He noticed that the machine was full and he started it. As Tucker left the kitchen, the dishwasher's quiet hum replaced the silence the TV left.

"Goodnight, Caboose." Tucker called out as he headed back towards his room.

He didn't receive an answer from Caboose. But he could hear Caboose groaning as he pulled out the couch's pull out bed. Knowing that Caboose would make his bed soon, Tucker closed his door and headed back to his computer, not bothering to turn on the lights. He closed his laptop and picked up his phone, turning on the flashlight to help him see through the dark room.

Tucker fell into his bed and pulled off all of his clothes. As he snuggled up and turned on his electric blanket, Tucker reached for his phone on the bedside table. He checked to see if he had any other messages from his mysterious texter. He hadn't. Tucker shut off his phone and put it under his pillow before rolling over onto his stomach.

He laid there in the quiet for a few minutes, faintly hearing the dishwasher continue its cycle. The living room lights went off, and Tucker knew that Caboose finally went to bed. Any moment now, he'd hear the man start to snore like a train passing by. Living with Caboose for the past two years allowed for Tucker to get used to the sound, but it still woke him up occasionally.

Tucker felt half an hour slowly pass by whilst he relaxed on his stomach. And he was not yet asleep. Sluggishly, he pulled out his phone from under his pillow and typed a message.

_My name is Tucker.—Tucker, sent 10:57_


	2. Chapter 2

Washington didn't check his phone until the next day, after he had woken up.

His phone chimed, letting Wash and the others know that 5:30 was here and ripe for the picking. Wash groaned as he rubbed at his closed eyes, trying to get all the grogginess out before morning drills. To his left, he could hear York groan at the noise before flipping over onto his stomach and dragging his pillow over his head. North Dakota, on the other hand, was already perfectly awake and dangling his feet above Wash's head before jumping off of their bunk bed and onto the cement floor. As Wash finally managed to look around the small room, he noticed that one of them was missing.

"Looks like Maine's already up running the morning laps." North commented as he tugged off his nightshirt and threw it on top of the bunk bed.

"You think? We're getting sausages and eggs this morning." York commented with a tired yawn as he struggled to get out of his own bed. "Of course Maine would want to be first in line for that shit. The man could eat a full tub of sausage and still have room for seconds. And we all know that the longer the eggs sit, the worse they get."

"You do have a point." North said, nodding his head as he tugged on a pair of pants. He paused in getting dressed to lightly smack Wash on the shoulder, as was customary for weekend morning drills. Wash groaned in response, swatted North's hand away, and turned over to his other side. "Come on Wash, it's time to wake up. The last time you arrived late for drills, you had to run laps for the rest of the day. And I don't think you want to do that for a _third_ time."

"If I may quote, you said 'If I ever have to run laps for an _entire day_ again, I want you to kill me out of mercy and dispose my body out in the river'." York said as he finally stood up straight, stretching his arms and twisting his back. He shook his head as he continued. "I have to say it again, but that's a bit extreme, Wash. Even for a drama queen like yourself."

Wash knew that the older soldiers were right, even if he didn't like it, and he forced himself out of his nice warm bed. The cold from outside had seeped into the base during the night and he almost jumped as his bare feet touched the cement floor. Wash sucked in a couple deep breaths as he wandered around the cramped shared room, both trying to wake up and warm his feet up. Running a hand through his thick blonde hair, Wash managed to succeed in one of those things.

"God, it's_ fucking cold out_." Wash said as he let out a hitched breath. "I don't want to go outside in this weather!"

"The cold's good for your lungs, Wash. It helps refresh them and also stops you from getting sick." North said as he finished getting dressed.

"I highly doubt that." Wash muttered under his breath.

In response, the older blonde man grabbed another standard Project Freelancer shirt and flung it at Wash. It landed on Wash's shoulder, whipping him against the side of the face. By the time Wash grabbed the shirt off of him, North was halfway out the door, already covered head to toe with Project Freelancer's standard ACU. "Now get dressed you two, Maine's going to eat all of the food again before we finish our morning run."

Washington did as he was ordered. He and York quickly got dressed together, pulling on their standard uniforms a little hastily. When they finished getting dressed in the appropriate attire, the two headed towards the station's outside track area. Pushing the door open, Wash was greeted with the sun just beginning to rise above the eastern horizon. The sun beams were numerous enough to shine off the snow, helping Washington see his surroundings this early in the morning. Above, the sky was a beautiful red and purple mirage that mixed with a few stray clouds, which turned closer to a dark blue the further West he look.

York nudged Wash when he noticed the younger Freelancer was staring at the scenery and then the two continued towards the track.

A few Freelancers were already at the start of the trail, warming up and stretching before running the required seven miles before chow time. In the distance, the younger Freelancer could see other recruits making their way through the frozen over forest path, North included in the bunch.

Wash spotted Connie, who briefly caught his slate-grey eyes. He blushed slightly and waved back at the woman, who then averted her gaze ashamedly and wiped a large wisp of brown hair out of her eye. Wash's smile faltered, but his steps didn't as he stood by her side and began stretching. As he did so, the two didn't break the shared silence; it was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, but rather somewhere in between.

That was alright for Wash, who was glad that what happened between them didn't mean their friendship had to end.

Once Washington felt his blood pumping and his ears begin to tingle from the cold, he looked over at Connie.

"You ready, Connie?" Wash asked, a soft smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

The small brunette woman nodded in response. "You think you can keep up this time?"

"Well this time I don't have a sprained ankle." Wash mentioned, giving Connie a rather pointed look as they both started their required morning run.

"Please Wash, you were falling behind well before you tripped over that stump." Connie scoffed.

Wash let out a small chuckle and the two continued their run in silence. York and a few other Freelancers joined behind them, and it looked like they were the last group to leave the starting area. They all ran in silence, save for their heavy breaths as they traveled through the woods. It was colder than Wash expected, and he could feel his cheeks and nose turn cherry red through the condensation of his breath. With a quick glance to his left, Wash could see that Connie was also affected by the subfreezing temperatures, as her ears were turning red at the tips.

It was the thought of fresh food and a warm room that kept Washington moving forward. The two were making good time and were slowly catching up to North's group until both groups seamlessly conjoined together. Wash felt more like he was in a herd of cattle now, but it was easier to keep a steady pace now that there were others around him.

Apparently Wyoming thought so as well, because his distinct British voice let out a loud "_Moo_, sir! I say _Mooove_ along."

All around him, the other Freelancer broke their calm façade and fell out of formation. A few laughed at the poorly conceived joke and continued at their steady pace while others paused to catch their breath, bending their legs and holding onto their knees. Wyoming whizzed by them, and Wash could hear the man snickering to himself as he passed. A long minute passed before the others realized that they were falling behind schedule, and York brought them back to attention.

"Come on people, we're getting eggs today! Move your asses!" York shouted as he started running again, with North right by his friend's side.

Wash nodded and then turned to Connie. The woman was smiling, her brown eyes twinkling and reflecting the white snow around them. Wash returned the grin and then motioned with his head that they should follow York's lead. Connie's smile only grew large as an answer.

A whole hour passed by them rather quickly. The sun rose high enough to peek through the trunks and branches of the trees beside the trail. Wash could feel the flitters of sunlight on his face and it was that, not the freezing cold or the seven mile run, that woke him up. Wash took in a full, deep breath and then pushed himself to run harder.

By the time that Wash's stomach started grumbling, he could make out the Project's base of operations in the distance and through the tree line. There were two trails of white smoke rising from the two main smokestacks, informing him that the furnace was running hard to keep the whole building warm. It was then that Wash wondered just how cold was it outside. When he'd get a chance to sit down he'll check the temperature on his phone . . .

The events of yesterday quickly came back to the forefront of his mind. York and North's awful prank, the discriminating photos, and the conversation he had with a complete stranger. The latter had been a surprising development; one that he never thought would happen to him. Wash wasn't much of a texter, just ask his parents when the last time he got into contact with them. It drove his mother crazy. So having a somewhat full discussion with someone he didn't even know almost threw him off.

Don't get him wrong, he enjoyed the latter half of yesterday. Talking with someone that didn't know who he was or what he did for a living. It was . . . a refreshing change. Not that many people openly accepted and agreed with Project Freelancer's controversial ideas and course of actions, and sometimes people took their more vocal opinions out on the soldiers during their leave out of the base. Wash soon grew to hate whenever someone asked him what division of the military he was a part of, only because he couldn't stand their looks of concern and disgust after he told them.

Texting that guy, at least he assumed it was a man that he had accidentally texted, felt like he was giving himself a clean slate. Like he was just a regular, ordinary guy.

By the time that Wash and Connie finished with their morning drill, the blonde man could finally feel the cold affecting him. As they fell into a slow jog, Wash began rubbing his hands together and then blowing his fingers in a repetitive motion. Connie was keeping her hands on her ears, which had only increased in redness in the past hour.

"Sometimes I wish that fucking earmuffs were standard issue." Connie cursed under her breath, hands still clamped on to the sides of her head.

"You know Connie, we could probably fill out a requisition form for you if you want." Wash said, grinning.

"Ugh, paperwork." Connie muttered as she led the two of them inside, briefly taking the lead. "Right now, all I want is a plate of sausage and a hot cup of black coffee.

Wash's noes wrinkled and quickly caught up to her, walking side by side. "I still can't believe you can drink that stuff straight from the pot."

"Do you realize how much sugar you put in your coffee?!" Connie exclaimed, punching Wash lightly on the shoulder as she did so. Wash returned the gesture before she could continue, which knocked her slightly off balance. "Honestly, I thought your teeth would have dissolved from all that sugar at this point. You've got such a sweet tooth."

"Hey, I'm not _that_ bad!" Wash said defensively.

"Maybe you should pay more attention next time you make a cup Wash, and then you can defend yourself."

By the time that Wash and Connie arrived at the cafeteria, only half of it had been filled. Most of the Project's recruits were already seated, scarfing down their food before beginning their scheduled training sessions and other daily chores. Like North had hypothesized, Maine was already sitting down with the rest of their unaccounted squad mates. As Wash made his way to the line for breakfast, he spotted Carolina and South by Maine's side. The two had already eaten, and their trays sat on the table unattended.

Behind them, Wash could hear York and North approach. He waved them over and York looked like he appreciated that they held a place in line for them. Ignoring the mutters of the irritated Freelancers behind them, York and North cut through the line.

"I hope there's enough food left. I'm fucking starving." York commented as he rubbed his stomach subconsciously.

"There's bound to be enough. The question is whether it'll still be warm by the time that we get to the front of the line." North commented, his voice still calm and collected even after an hour of running.

"As long as there's fresh coffee, I'll be happy." Connie muttered under her breath.

With Wash and Connie having a friendly conversation with York and North, the line went fairly quickly. The four grabbed a metallic tray as they passed and then soon piled on the still warm meat and eggs onto the tray. Wash grabbed a banana from the pile of fresh fruit while the others went to grab a small Styrofoam cup of coffee. Wash was too self-conscious now to get one as well, after what Connie said only a few minutes ago.

About ten minutes later, the four Freelancers had their food and sat down next to their fellow squad mates. York made a beeline for Carolina as soon as he saw her flaming red hair and sat down between his girlfriend and South, who was currently face down on the table asleep, blonde hair still frizzled and messy from bed. Washington took his seat by Maine and Connie, the former having already eaten his food as well.

"God Wash, you look exhausted." Carolina commented when she turned and saw his face. Concern for her youngest squad mate appeared on her face when her brows furrowed together. "Did morning drills tire you out?"

"Yeah, she's got a point." York said, returning his attention to the Blonde Freelancer. He frowned, looking concerned as well. "You've got bags under your eyes, and I know from living with you for years that you only get those when you're sick. Did you catch something? God I hope I don't catch it from you."

Wash just glared at York before taking a bite out of a cooling piece of sausage. "Ha ha. No, I just had a hard time falling asleep. Maine snores."

Maine let out a small huff and then lightly punched the smaller, younger soldier. Well, he meant it to be lightly, but it still sent Wash stumbling.

"You've been sleeping in the same room as Maine for the past three years, Washington. You can't use that excuse anymore." North said as he played with his plastic fork, bending the teeth into opposite directions. "Now tell us what's really bothering you."

Wash bit his lip as he thought. As he did so, six pairs of eyes looked up for an answer. Even South was looking at him now, and he thought that she had passed out after eating her breakfast. He didn't feel like he had to share the fact that he'd been having a conversation with a stranger ever since York had pulled that prank on him yesterday. It didn't feel right.

Instead, Wash came up with something else that was believable.

"I don't know, maybe because I was expecting you to draw_ another hairy dick_ on my face while I was sleeping and then threaten to snapchat it to every single one of your contacts." Wash retorted. And he wasn't exactly lying about it. Wash had stayed up way past the Project's regulation curfew to make sure the older Freelancer wouldn't try the same trick twice. "So _excuse me_ if I'm a little grouchy and tired today!"

"Hey, I learned my lesson." York said as he held up his hands to placate a peace offering.

After he said it, York shifted into a more comfortable position. Wash had been true to his threat yesterday; he had given the older man a beating during their nightly sparring session. Wash may seem smaller in size than the others due to his younger age, and he may not be the most focused Freelancer in the Project, but he'd be damned if that meant he was weaker.

"Next time, take your anger out on a punching bag."

"_Next time_, don't draw dicks on my face."

Connie quickly diffused the situation when she noticed the rising anger levels in her friends and partners. She scrapped the metallic tray against the tabletop, bringing the attention off of Wash and York and onto herself. York eyed her, but said nothing.

"Well, it looks like we're almost done here." Connie said with a small smile. She turned to the resident Redhead. "Carolina, maybe it's a good idea for us to hurry up to the training room soon. I heard the Councilor wanted to talk with us before training began."

Carolina nodded; she couldn't argue with Connie's logic. "She's right. The Councilor will be waiting for us to arrive shortly."

Wash hadn't finished eating yet. He watched as his squad went off without him as he tore open his banana and took a bite out of it. The younger Freelancer continued to pick at his food, not wanting to continue morning drills just yet. It felt like he had just sat down five minutes ago. If the clock on the wall was correct, he still had about fifteen minutes before he was needed with the rest of his squad.

He finished his food as others left for the training room. Instead of joining them, Wash fished out his phone from his pocket, remembering that he wanted to check the temperature earlier. Instantly he saw that he received a message from the person he accidentally texted yesterday. Wash smiled to himself and opened the message, only to be greeted to an answer from one of his questions.

_My name is Tucker."—Unknown, sent 10:57_

They had sent the message just after Wash had fallen asleep. If it had been ten minutes earlier last night, Wash would have been able to respond to the person, Tucker. It felt good to know their name, and Wash smiled again. He quickly added their name to his contacts and then powered down his phone.

Wash checked the time again, and nearly cursed under his breath. Wash sprang up from his seat and rushed out the door, not bothering to pick up his tray and placing it with the other dirty ones at the other end of the cafeteria. He was going to be late again if he didn't hurry, and he did _not _want to run laps again, especially on a Saturday.

Washington sprinted out of the cafeteria and headed towards the large training room on the opposite side of the base. After living inside Project Freelancer's main base of operations for almost four years, Wash had practically memorized its layout. He knew his way through the winding, seemingly identical cement hallways like the back of his hand. Because of this, Wash wasted no time to catch up with the rest of his squad mates.

Fortunately, when he finally arrived at the training room, the Councilor was nowhere to be found. His squad mates were all lined up and positioned to greet the Project's second in command; each person stood by their partners waiting to put their hand to attention when need be. The only two that stood alone were Connie, who was waiting for Wash to stand by her left, and Maine.

Wash felt one of his eyebrows rise as he voiced out his confusion. "Maine? Where's your partner?"

Maine turned to look at Wash and shrugged nonchalantly. He huffed out a "Don't know."

Wash nodded absentmindedly as he finally stopped at Connie's side. But now that he had brought up that they were missing someone, the others broke formation and looked at Maine's empty side. Wash could practically hear Carolina letting out an aggravated groan when her brain made the connection that someone was not at their post.

"God damn it, where the hell is Tex?!" Carolina practically yelled out her frustration.

"Agent Texas has caught a mild case of the flu, Agent Carolina." The distinct, ever calm voice of the Councilor attracted everyone's attention. Immediately everyone snapped back to attention, bringing their right hand to their forehead stiffly. Ahead of them stood the Councilor, clipboard in hand and eyes portraying a calm look as he stared at each soldier. "She's been ordered to be put on bed rest until Wednesday. Until then, Agent Maine will be involved in a different training schedule with Agent Florida's squad."

As the Councilor said that, Wash gave the large man a look. His grey eyes flickered to Maine's blue ones and they held each other's gaze before the Councilor spoke up again.

"You are Dismissed, Agent Maine."

Maine hesitated before finally leaving the training room. The Councilor kept his eyes on Maine's retreating back until he was sure that the Freelancer was out the door. Once he was content, the Councilor returned his gaze onto the others. Wash did his best to keep a straight face. But damn, this man could be _creepy_ when he wanted to be.

"Because we are down a team, the Director has approved a change of plans for today's training session." The Councilor paused to look down at his clipboard. He read something briefly before popping his head back up into a straight position. "Instead of having a paired two on two match, each of you and your partners will be practicing together to improve your weak points."

Wash felt a little bile rise from his stomach. He glanced over to Connie, but noticed that she was still facing forward, ignoring his eye contact. He knew what he was going to do today, and he didn't like it one bit. Connie was a master when it came to armed hand to hand combat; in fact it was the reason why the woman had been handpicked for the Project by the Director himself.

"I believe that you all know what you're doing for today. Head to your designated areas and begin." The Councilor dismissed the group and walked towards the exit. He went through the door, but Wash knew that he would keep a watching eye on their top recruits up in the observation room.

Simultaneously, the six Freelancers broke formation. Wash quickly turned to look at York and Carolina, who were headed to the back corner of the room, where a small sparing circle was placed. Carolina, the best out of all of them when it came to _everything_, would soon be beating her partner into submission. That is, until the two would switch from student to teacher through half of their timeframe and the redhead would have to try her skill in the art of lock picking.

Connie coughed, bringing Wash's attention back on the woman. They looked at each other for a few minutes as an awkward silence falling between them. It looked like Wash would be the first one to speak, so he shrugged his shoulders the break their stillness.

"Well, how's your aim?" Wash asked, knowing that his strongest point was his skill with firearms.

"Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. And your blade skills?" Connie countered, crossing her arms together. She leaned onto one foot, distributing most of her weight onto it. "Last time I checked, you could use some work."

"The last time you checked was last week." Wash sheepishly replied, rubbing at the back of his smooth neck. A moment passed before Wash let out a small, defeated sigh. "I guess I could still use the practice."

Connie nodded, "Alright."

And with that, the two headed to one of the empty corners of the training room. As if the Councilor predicted their course of actions, Wash and Connie found a stilted case with a pair of black painted batons and two sharp serrated combat knives. Wash gave the knives a hard stare, but soon dismissed their existence as he hovered one hand over a baton. Without thinking, the two partners picked up the wooden batons for practice. As Connie tested the weight and balance of the wooden baton by flipping it in her hand, Wash ran his hand over the smooth surface. He already knew he was coming out of today with a few new bruises.

"Are you ready Wash?" Connie asked, her grip tightening on the baton's handle.

"As ready as I'll ever be. . ."

"Oh come on you _big baby_, I'll go easy on you."

The two fell into defensive positions. Wash steadied himself, breathing in and out calmly. Before he fully concentrated on the weapon in his hand and on his opponent standing opposite of him, Wash could hear the other four Freelancers hard at work. That made him a little self-conscious, but he nodded at Connie that he was ready anyways. Connie nodded back, and then smirked.

Connie was quick to work when it came to their training sessions. She lunged at Wash within a single heartbeat and the blonde man had only a second to respond. The sound of wood against wood rattled in his ears, especially when it scrapped together as Wash did his best to misdirect the baton away from his body. From the corner of his eye, he could see small bits of black paint fall to the ground, exposing the baton's natural wooden texture.

Wash took a half step backwards and towards the right, focusing his attention on his footwork as he tried to take advantage of Connie's exposed side. But the smaller woman was _fast_. By the time that Wash lunged, Connie was back on the offensive. She quickly drove her baton at Wash's and twisted it until Wash lost his grip on his. The baton clattered against the ground and Connie "stabbed" hers into Wash's lower abdomen.

"And . . . you're dead." Connie said smugly as Wash let out a small grunt of pain. She watched as Wash rubbed the growing sore part and ignored the glare she gave him. "You're stance and footwork are good, Wash. You don't need to concentrate on that part so much now. Does it at least feel natural at this point?"

Wash half nodded while he bent down to pick up his weapon, shrugging before he spoke. "I guess? I just don't like close quarter fights."

"But you're really good when it comes to unarmed fighting. This isn't much different." Connie pointed out as she fell back in a defensive position.

"_Not much different." _Wash scoffed under his breath, but he knew Connie had heard him. Still he followed Connie's lead and went back into position. "You know, there is a big difference. Unarmed, you can take a few punches and still live. Taking a stab wound to the chest? I don't think so."

"Come on Wash, it's all in your head." Connie said comfortingly, using her baton in hand to tap her temple gently. "Once you realize it's the same damn thing, your instincts will be a lot easier to follow. Just give it a try now, before we start using real knives."

Wash faltered at that, letting out a goofy sound of confusion.

"Wh-_what?_"

Connie paused and gave Wash a confused look. "You didn't get the memo telling how they wanted us to start using real knives after today's practice?"

"When did they tell you that?!" Wash's panicked voice rose in pitch by about an octave and a half.

"Oh my god, Wash. We got an email last Wednesday!" Connie said, an aggravated sigh escaped her lips. Wash watched as Connie face palmed, and then groaned into her hand. "Do you ever check your email?!"

"Yes! Every goddamn day. I didn't get that email." Wash pushed, fully believing his words.

"This information was kept from Agent Washington, Agent Connecticut." Wash was surprised that the Councilor was able to sneak up on him like that. It cause Wash to jump slightly, but hopefully he hid his surprise from the older gentleman. The Councilor stood still, changing his gaze from the panicked Blonde man and onto Connie. "The Director and I both agreed on this. If Washington is capable of vast improvement, it would be while he is under pressure."

"When was this decided?" Wash asked, hurt at the fact that he had been left out of the loop.

"Two weeks ago, Agent." The Councilor returned his gaze towards Wash, his dark brown eyes meeting Wash's slate grey ones. A few long seconds passed and Wash had to avert his eyes. "After studying your past improvements when it came to hand to hand, we noticed that you progress at a higher level when stressed." There was a small pause. "Are you under stress now, Agent Washington?"

"_Uh, kind of!_" Wash felt himself growing snappy, and he needed to remind himself that the Councilor, while not an official combat officer himself, still outranked him.

"That's good. Connecticut, switch to knives." The Councilor ordered her as he walked away, heading towards the sparing Dakota twins.

Wash stared at Connie for a few seconds, silently begging her to disobey orders _just this once_. Instead, Connie grabbed her forehead gently and shook her head, letting out a tired, defeated sigh. Slowly she made her way back to the supplies and picked up the knife. Wash followed her, but didn't pick up the other combat knife. Instead, he stared at it as if it was the Black Plague personified. Connie tested the knife just like she had with the baton, pinching the tip of the blade before flipping it, catching it by grasping its handle perfectly.

"Alright then Wash. Let's start out nice and slow."

* * *

And that was how Wash ended up in the infirmary, left shoulder and upper arm gushing out blood.

The top half of his CPU, covered in blood, was still back in the training room, along with a blood covered knife. His chest was bear, as his Standard Project Freelancer T-shirt was wrapped around the stab wound, acting as a makeshift bandage until a professional could look at it. It was covered in blood, and Wash was slightly unsettled when his brain finally made the connection that it was _his_ blood.

At least now he was on a cot, resting on his back and looking at the ceiling as one of the doctor's stitched his arm back together again. They gave him a small dosage of morphine, effectively blocking out the pain for the meantime, and he was even more disoriented than before. Throughout the entire ordeal, he felt both hands clench and unclench into fists several times.

He heard the tiny clink of the needle against the metal operating pan, and Wash looked to the left to face the doctor, who smiled back at him. Wash smiled back at him, still slightly delirious.

"Alright Washington, you're good for now. Just keep the stitches clean and try not to get it infected." The doctor said, patting the Agent's uninjured shoulder gently. "The wound should heal in about two weeks. No strenuous activity until then. Jogging is fine, and since that's not your dominant arm, so is shooting. But no sparring or else you could pull the stitches out. Understand?"

Wash went to open his mouth to say yes but instead nodded halfway through.

"The effects on the morphine should dissipate after an hour or two. Stay here until the disorientation fades, and then you can go back to your room." The doctor said as he stood up. "I'll be right outside the door if you need me. Just call my name and I'll hear you."

Wash took a few seconds to nod again, and the doctor nodded back before heading out the door. The blonde soldier let out a small sigh before accidentally banging his head against the cot's stiff pillow hard. He let out a small groan before rolling over to his side, resting on his uninjured side. That was when he noticed that he wasn't entirely alone.

Agent Texas was on the cot next to him, currently covered in a thick blanket and hiding her head under it. She was only identifiable with her long dirty blonde hair that poked out of covers and rested on the unused pillow. If Wash listened, he could hear Tex's stuffed up nose as she breathed through her sleep. And she was asleep, because that was the only time the woman was ever still.

Great, now he's going to get the Flu, along with a stab wound that'll leave a nasty scar for the rest of his years. Somehow Wash just _knew _that today was going to be one of those days, and he just ignored his gut instinct. Wash didn't like being sick, and he distanced himself from Tex as much as he could before realizing he was dangerously close to falling off of his cot.

Wash was halfway through standing up to get the Doctor to ask him if he could leave now when he heard Tex giggle. Wash froze in place and stared at her covered form. The last time he checked, Tex didn't _giggle_. Maybe chuckle or laugh her ass off, but never giggle. He remained quiet, listening to her again until he heard her blow her noes under the cover.

"Tex, are you awake?" Wash asked hesitantly.

"Fuck off, Wash. I'm trying to sleep."

Okay. Wash made a mental note to never bother Tex when she was sleeping and/or sick. That would be a quick way to get on the Freelancer's bad side. Still Wash pressed on, the morphine affecting his common sense.

"That didn't sound like sleeping to me. What are you doing?"

"Fine." Tex said defiantly. With one of her hands, Tex exposed herself by flinging her covers off. She quickly got up into a sitting position, and Wash had a full look at her sick face. One cheek was completely red, as she had been lying on that side for too long, and a shiny streak on her chin told Wash that she had been drooling. Her dirty blond hair, which was usually perfectly kept in a bun or a ponytail, looked like a rat's nest, but Wash would never tell her that. "I was texting my boyfriend. It's the only thing I _can_ do while here."

"Wait, you have a boyfriend?" Wash couldn't help but ask.

"I do have a personal life outside of the Project, Wash." Tex said as she fished out her phone from the covers. "Unlike other people, I don't want to spend most of my life _obsessed _about being the best damn soldier."

It didn't take a genius to figure out who Tex was referring to. Wash felt his conscious telling him that he should let the conversation drop. With the competition that Tex and Carolina had with each other at an all-time high, it was better for his safety to stay out of it. Wash nodded and shrugged, sucking in a deep breath when he felt a sharp pain in his injured shoulder, and turned to face the other side of the infirmary.

"Alright, alright. I'll leave you alone."

"Thanks." Tex huffed out grumpily, not sounding the slightest bit grateful.

However, speaking of texting reminded Wash that he didn't have to be completely bored. He lay back down on his back and carefully pulled out his phone from his pants pocket. Opening the message app, Wash quickly found his newest contact and started typing up a message.

_How is your Saturday so far?—Wash, 11:23_

Wash was left impatiently waiting for a response, but he knew he shouldn't be irritated at a man he didn't really know. Still, a few minutes ticked by and Wash inevitably let out a large huff of air as his patience finally ended. He started to bob his left leg, an anxious habit he developed as a child and was never able to get rid of.

Finally, after what felt like forever, there was an answer.

_Sleeping. But I'm up now.—Tucker, 11:32_

Wash could practically taste the irritation in the man's text. He was surprised that the text didn't end with an "asshole" tacked on. From their small conversation yesterday, Wash had a feeling that Tucker was the type that swore a lot. Still, Wash felt slightly guilty for waking the poor dude up. Wash then remembered that civilians, or even people outside the Project, didn't have a set curfew at 9 at night. And no one with a brain would get up willingly at 5:30 on a Saturday.

_Sorry about that. I forget that some people like to sleep in sometimes. I've already been up for six hours.—Wash, 11:34_

The reply was almost instantaneous.

_What the fuck man? Six hours? Do you live on a fucking farm?—Tucker, 11:34_

At that Wash chuckled, and then hoped that he hadn't woken Texas, who he could hear faintly snoring next to him now. She must have been really sick if she could fall asleep that quickly. Well, at least he had been right about Tucker and his swearing.

_No, I'm military. It's far worse than farming.—Wash, 11:35_

_There's a military base around Chicago?—Tucker, 11:37_

_It's not a well known of a base.—Wash, 11:38_

That was a lie, an outright lie by his part. Project Freelancer and its base was most likely the most known within the United States and her territories, and not necessarily because of all the good it was doing. Project Freelancer was involved with cutting edge technology to produce the best soldiers for the next generation, however possible. _"To lead humanity towards the stars"_. That was their mantra, and their Director had every intention of achieving just that.

Whether the Director was achieving it humanely was still up for debate. Just look at any Freelancer as an example.

_Anyways, do you have any plans for the day?—Wash, 11:39_

_Other than laundry? Nah. Maybe go out job searching if the temperature rises later.—Tucker, 11:41_

_Job searching?—Wash, 11:42_

_I'm broke and living in a big city on borrowed money. I need to find a fucking job or else I have to move back into my mom's house.—Tucker, 11:43_

_And I take it that you get paid for being in the military?—Tucker, 11:45_

_Most of my money goes to my parents. I live on base and they provide us with basic needs.—Wash, 11:46_

_Shit, I should have gone into the army.—Tucker, 11:47_

_So what the hell are you doing now?—Tucker, 11:47_

_I got stabbed, so I've been put on bed rest for now. Hopefully I can get back on my feet soon.—Wash, 11:49._

It wasn't until Washington pressed the send button did he realize his mistake. He bit his bottom lip as he waited for Tucker's response, unsure of how the other man would respond to such information. Fortunately, Wash didn't have to wait very long to know what Tucker had to say.

_You got stabbed. Stabbed. And you're just casually talking about it? Fuck what I said about joining the army. I'd rather keep all my blood inside my body, where it belongs.—Tucker, 11:50_

_It's a tough life, and it's not for everyone.—Wash, 11:51_

_No shit, Sherlock.—Tucker, 11:53_

And that was how Washington spent the rest of his time in the infirmary. After an hour of sitting around, the disorientation tampered off, and Wash felt stable enough to head back to his bunk. He held his phone in his right hand as he stumbled back to his shared room, occasionally texting the other man whenever he responded. It was only when he was back in his own bed that Wash felt the effects of the day hang overhead him, and he soon grew tired.

Getting less sleep than he was used to and then exercising for five hours was had tired the young man out, and he found himself yawning frequently. But still he texted Tucker; they were now having a full conversation without pauses, and Wash found it very relaxing. He was content to have his phone rest against his chest, propped with one hand as he typed with the other.

However, Wash couldn't fight his fatigue forever, and he fell asleep mid-text around three o'clock.

_No, I don't think cats are better than dogs. I never said that. I don't have anything against dogs. I just think that cats are much more. . ._


End file.
